“Surely that does not surprise you? Such things have a way of being seen, and remembered later. You may rest assured that you will be watched over like a friend; subject of course to a good appearance. Look. I have brought you something which will set your mind at rest.” He opened his hand.
Pausanias, peering, said, “One ring is much like another.”
“Look well at this one. Tonight, at supper, you will be able to look again.”
“Yes,” Pausanias said. “With that I would be satisfied.”
“Why,” Hephaistion exclaimed, “you’re wearing your lion ring. Where was it? We looked everywhere.”
“Simon found it in my clothes chest. I must have run my hand through the clothes, and dragged it off.”
“I looked there myself.”
“I suppose it lodged in a fold.”
“You don’t think he stole it, and then took fright?”
“Simon? He’d have more sense, everyone knows it’s mine. It’s a lucky day, it seems.”
He meant that Eurydike had just been delivered of her child; it was another girl.
“May God fulfill the good omen,” Hephaistion said.
They went down to supper. Alexander paused to greet Pausanias by the entry. From so grim-faced a man, it was always a small triumph to win a smile.
It was the dark before dawn. The old theater at Aigai glowed with cressets and flambeaux. Small torches flitted like fireflies, as stewards guided guests to their places on the cushioned benches. The light breeze from the mountain forests picked up the smells of burning pine-resin and packed humanity.
Down in the round orchestra were set in a circle the twelve altars of the Olympians. Fires glowed on them, sweetened with incense, lighting up the robes of their heirophants, and the strong bodies of the sacrificers with their shining cleavers. From the fields beyond came the lowing and bleating of the victims, restless at the stir and torchlight, wreathed already in their garlands. Above the rest rose the bellow of King Zeus’ white bull with his gilded horns.
On the stage, its ornate setting still dim with dusk, the King’s throne was set, flanked with state chairs for the royal kin: his new son-in-law, his son, and the high chiefs of Macedon.
In the upper tiers were the athletes, the charioteers, the singers and musicians who would compete in the Games when the coming rite had hallowed them. With these, and the multitude of the King’s invited guests, the small theater was packed full. The soldiers and peasants, the tribesmen ridden in from the hills to see the show, trampled and stirred on the dusky hillside around the scooped shell of the theater, or thronged the processional way. Voices rose and fell and shifted, like waves on a shingle beach. The pine trees, standing black in the eastward glimmer, creaked under their load of boys.
The old rough road to the theater had been leveled and widened for the great procession. Laid by the mountain dews, the dust smelled sweet in the sharp daybreak air. Soldiers detailed to clear the route came with torches; the jostling was good-humored, shover and shoved being often fellow tribesmen. The torches were extinguished in the lift of a cloudless clear summer dawn.
As pink touched the peaks beyond the Aigai ledge, the splendors of the parade way glimmered into view; the tall scarlet masts with their gilt finials of lion or eagle, the long streaming banners; the festoons of flowers and ribboned ivy; the triumphal arch carved and painted with the Exploits of Herakles, and topped with a Victory holding out her gilded bays. On either side of her stood two live golden-haired boys robed as Muses, with trumpets in their hands.
In the castle forecourt on the ancient stone acropolis, Philip stood in a purple cloak clasped with gold, crowned with a golden laurel-wreath. His head was turned into the light early breeze. Birdsong, the tweeting and twangling of instruments tuning up, voices of spectators and of marshals giving orders, came to him backed by the bass roar of the Aigai falls. His gaze traversed the plain that stretched east to Pella and the dawn-mirroring sea. His pasture lay lush and green before him; his rivals’ horns were broken. His wide nostrils snuffed the rich friendly air.
Behind him, in a scarlet tunic and jeweled sword belt, Alexander stood beside the bridegroom. His bright hair, freshly washed and combed, was crowned with a garland of summer flowers. Half the states of Greece had sent the King wrought-gold wreaths as gifts of honor; but none had been passed to him.
Round the forecourt were ranged the men of the Royal Bodyguard, ready to form the escort. Pausanias, their commander, was pacing about before the lines. Those in his path would dress ranks anxiously, or fidget with their equipment; then stand easier, aware that he had not looked at them.
On the north rampart, among her women, was the bride, just risen from her marriage bed. She had had no pleasure in it; but she had been ready for worse. He had been decent, not very drunk, much aware of her youth and maidenhood, and not really old. She no longer feared him. Craning over the rough stone parapet, she saw the long snake of the procession forming along the walls. Beside her, her mother stared down into the courtyard; her lips were moving, a faint murmur of breath came out. Kleopatra did not try to hear the words. She felt the sorcery, like heat from a covered fire. But it was time to set out for the theater, their litters were ready. Soon she would be on her wedding journey; such things would no longer matter. Even if Olympias came to Epiros, Alexandros would know how to deal with it. It was something after all, to have a husband.
The Muses’ trumpets blew. Under the Victory arch, to shouts of wonder, the Twelve Gods passed in progress to their altars. Each float was drawn by matched horses, caparisoned in red and gold. The wooden images were carved god-size, seven feet tall, and had been tinted by the Athenian master who colored for Apelles.
King Zeus enthroned, with staff and eagle, had been copied in little from the giant Zeus at Olympia, his throne gilded, his robe stiff with gems and bullion. Apollo was robed as a musician, with a gold lyre. Poseidon rode in a sea-horse chariot. Demeter sat crowned with gold corn, between mystai holding torches. Queen Hera had her peacocks; wits remarked that King Zeus’ consort came rather far down the line. Virgin Artemis, bow at shoulder, held a kneeling stag by the horns. Dionysos rode nude on a spotted panther. Athene had her shield and helmet, but not her Attic owl. Hephaistos wielded his hammer; Ares, his foot on a prone foe, glared under his crested helmet; Hermes laced a winged sandal. Clad in a narrow drift of veil, a little Eros beside her, Aphrodite sat in a flowered chair. It was observed, in undertones, that she had a look of Eurydike; she was still in the lying-in room; she would not appear today.
The last float of the twelve received its fanfare. The thirteenth float came on.
King Philip’s image had an eagle-headed throne with couchant leopards for arms. His feet rested on a winged bull with a Persian tiara and the face of a man. The artist had trimmed down his figure, left out his scars, and put back his age ten years. Allowing for this, he was very lifelike; one almost expected movement from the black painted eyes.
There were cheers; but like a cold current in warm seas, there could be felt a flaw of silence. One old countryman murmured to another, “He ought to have been made smaller.” They looked askance at the line of jolting gods ahead, and made ancient averting signs.
The chiefs of Macedon followed, Alexandros of Lynkestis and the rest. It was seen that even those from the back hills wore good loom-woven wool with border-work, and a gold brooch. Old folk recalled days of sheepskin cloaks, when bronze pins were riches; their tongues clucked between doubt and wonder.
To the beat of deep-toned pipes playing a Dorian march, came the van of the Royal Guard, Pausanias leading. The men swaggered in their parade armor, smiling at friends in the crowd; a feast-day did not demand the sternness of maneuvers. But Pausanias looked straight on, at the tall doorway of the theater.